Turning the Storm (The After Dunkirk Series Book 3)

by Lee Jackson

  Red missed Shorty and would miss Andy; they had been his buddies, his pals, his fellow fighter pilots. He set aside thoughts of Shorty. They depressed him. However, the thought of Andy Mamedoff brought a smile. The White Russian refugee would be the first American to be transferred to another American unit and the first to be promoted to leadership. Further, in only ten days, he would wed Penny Craven and be the first among the eagles to take a war bride. Red could not be happier for him.

  He returned his thoughts to the present as more newer pilots entered the hut. Deep fatigue already showed on their faces, and they hardly spoke to one another. Gone was the camaraderie of earlier days when Red, Andy, Shorty, and Jeremy had trained together at RAF Hawarden in Wales. No more would they fly as they had at Middle Wallop, wingtip to wingtip, four fast friends out saving the world. The turns of battle had been hair-raising, but they had been thrilling too, and they had returned from missions flushed with the success of their exploits and ready to hit the taverns. When was that? A year ago? A century?

  Then Jeremy had been downed in the last major daytime raid against Fighter Command. By the time he had healed and returned to 609 Squadron, Red, Andy, and Shorty had been transferred to 71 Eagle Squadron, an event they had looked forward to with anticipation. Then they found that they were loath to leave the place where they had launched on so many patrols, honed their combat skills, shot down German aircraft, and built enviable reputations. Only days after their new squadron was finally activated, Shorty had dived into that fateful cloud. He must have hit the water at five hundred miles an hour, probably the result of vertigo.

  The four of them had survived Hitler’s massive attacks against Fighter Command, and when those failed in bringing Great Britain to heel, the führer had sent the night raids with incendiaries and tons of explosive to pound the British population into submission. At last, seeming to accept that he could not dominate Great Britain and its stubborn prime minister in the immediate future, he had turned his attention north to the Soviet Union.

  We survived all of that.

  As more pilots trooped into the hut, they glanced at Red deferentially, almost reverently, the living legend among them who still flew and had taught or would teach them how to survive and win in aerial combat. Some of them puzzled over why Red himself had not been elevated to leadership, as Andy would be within days. His natural qualities in that regard were self-evident, even now when he kept a distance. When giving instruction, he was funny, patient, and caring, inspiring his new mates to be better. They had noticed that he tired easily, and when he returned from patrol, he immediately went to his room and crashed onto his bunk.

  Red had heard some of the scuttle, none of it derogatory, all just wondering. He let it pass without comment. When asked, he would respond in his exaggerated Texas drawl, “Hey, I’m the old man in this outfit. I cain’t keep up with you younger fellers.”

  Hmph. At twenty-four, I’m the old guy? Some of these pilots are a few years older than me.

  He knew the truth. My nemesis, lupus, is taking over.

  It was his secret; one he had shared with no one. Since learning that the disease had caused his collapse back at RAF Kirton Lindsey and that was why he woke up more fatigued and went to bed earlier and more exhausted than his buddies, he had continued to fight in the air with every ounce of energy. But his vitality waned on return to earth, and with it the gregarious, fun-loving disposition that had marked him and inspired his friends to follow him so readily. He had even distanced himself from Claire and Anne Haring, making no effort to contact the former during off hours, and neglecting to answer letters from the latter.

  I hope I can make it to Andy’s wedding. Overwhelming weariness could prevent him from making the overland trip to Epping where the wedding would be held, a distance of one-hundred-and-thirty miles roundtrip. He bore no envy for Andy for having gained leadership status while Red had not. He had known those opportunities were foreclosed when he heard the doctor’s diagnosis.

  The senior officers can see that I’m just not up to it. I’ll be lucky if they let me fly much longer. He wondered if any of them had checked his health status with the doctor.

  “Gentlemen, let me have your attention.” The pilots gathered around Squadron Leader Stanley Meares. He was a good-looking fellow, Red could see that, with a narrow head, square jaw, light-colored hair, and intelligent eyes. “We’re going up today,” he said with a slight smile, “but it’s no practice mission, and we won’t be waiting on a clanging bell to scramble.”

  He waited for his words to settle in while the pilots exchanged puzzled glances. Standing with aching joints and drooping shoulders at the back of the group, Red pulled his head up and straightened his spine with a stirring of anticipated thrill.

  “71 Eagle Squadron,” Meares said dramatically, “today we go on the offensive. Today, we fly our first combat mission into France to destroy German targets.”

  Amidst whooping and hollering, Red smiled and looked around. “About damn time,” he growled.

  Two pilots close to him laughed and slapped his back. “You’ve been waiting a long time for this, haven’t you, Red?” one said.

  “Too long,” he replied, ignoring the pain from the friendly clap.

  Meares raised a hand for quiet. “This is a seek-and-destroy patrol,” he said. “More of a probe to see what’s out there. The weather’s bad for flying but good for what we’re going to do, which is fly in low under the clouds, shoot at anything that looks German, turn around when we get to the limit of our range, and scoot back.”

  “We’re finally going to strike,” someone called.

  “Good day for it,” another pilot said. “I like the weather for this.”

  “We’ll surprise them. They’re not looking to be attacked.”

  Once more, Meares quieted the squadron. “Now listen, we only have nine planes, and they’ve been ‘rode hard and put up wet’ a few times, as the saying goes, so no heroics and no unnecessary acrobatics. We get in, shoot what we find, and get out. If you come under fire, duck into some clouds and avoid contact. Understood?”

  Five minutes later, nine Supermarine Spitfire IIAs rose into the sky. Red looked dully around his cockpit. Two weeks ago, they had been flying Hurricanes. He guessed this was a step up, but the squadron was already scheduled for the next version of the Spitfire by the end of the month, so he had refrained from looking for the fine differences between his previous fighter and this one. If it flies, it’s fast, can do a tight turn, and has plenty of firepower, I’m happy.

  They headed southeast toward northern France. Prior to reaching the coast, three of the Spitfires encountered mechanical malfunctions and returned to the airfield. Meares, Red, and four others pressed on.

  Within minutes, they had streaked over the Channel, crossing into France between Dunkirk and the border with Belgium. Wehrmacht coastal gun crews had not spotted them in time to respond effectively, so they made a clean entry and sped inland.

  They flew low, sometimes just above the trees, but the targets were sparse, with most of the military build-up concentrated along the coast. They strafed a few convoys, hit some obvious military bases, and looked for ammunition dumps.

  Suddenly, when they were roughly seventy-five miles inland on a course toward Paris, their controller’s voice came over the radio. “Red Leader, this is Control. A formation of bandits is shaping up behind you, between you and the coast, and headed your way. They’re nearly on top of you.”

  “Roger,” Meares replied. “We’ll watch for them. The clouds are clearing. Visibility is a lot more than we expected.”

  “Understood. Look for them now at six o’clock. We count seventy-five of unknown type.”

  “Roger. Break. Red Flight, every man for himself.”

  Hearing the transmission, Red smiled. “Every man for himself?” he muttered. “What’s that? I like ‘tally-ho’ better. And did Meares’ voice just go up an octave?”

  He banked hard right and began jin
king across the fields. Dropping lower, barely skimming treetops, and dipping to fly between farm buildings, he started a wide turn to take him back toward the coast while searching for low clouds that offered concealment.

  Then he saw the enemy formation, appearing at first as a swarm of bees that within seconds grew longer wings and stabilizers. Yellow flashes and smoke spouted from their guns as they descended.

  He spotted a low cloud, but it was sufficiently high that he would expose himself by climbing to it. A quick glance around showed no better alternative, and the Germans, now diving, were rapidly closing the distance.

  Red rotated the Spitfire to present less of a target and lifted his nose, throttling to maximum combat thrust. Did the designers ever fix that carburetor problem?

  He leveled out at the base of the cloud and looked back over his shoulder. Most of the German fighters were still in a dive, but a few had peeled off, leveled out of their dives, turned, and started climbing toward him. Not far below, the earth turned and gyrated with every motion of his hand on the stick and his feet on the pedals.

  He made out some details of the enemy aircraft. They were ME 110s, and several more pursued him, maneuvering to block his path to the Channel.

  He continued toward the cloud at full power, changing direction every few seconds to avoid offering himself as an easy target. Even as he fled, quick thoughts of Shorty and Andy flashed through his mind. They knew how to maneuver with him to defeat the threat. The three of them had done it so many times over Kent and the waters south of there: calling to each other, warning of attacks from the rear, and handing off a bandit to whichever of them was best positioned to take it out. Our new pilots are unseasoned. They don’t know what to do.

  A plane appeared in his peripheral vision. On instinct he dove and turned. It flashed past him, spurting bullets and tracers that streaked by ahead of him. For a fleeting moment he caught a clear view of it and sucked in his breath.

  The Messerschmitt’s tail was covered from top to bottom with thin white stripes, each of them representing the kill of a British plane. There could be only two German fighter pilots with so many stripes: Major Adolf Galland and Lieutenant Joaquin Müncheberg.

  Seconds later, another ME 110 streaked by with an even greater number of stripes. Red groaned. “Of all things, I’ve got to have two of Germany’s greatest aces on me at the same time.” He pushed the stick hard right, taking his Spitfire into as tight a turn as he could control, and sped into the cloud. Maybe I can attack from there.

  60

  September 8, 1941

  “Won’t this weather ever break?” Atlas said. “It’s not as if I’m eager to get to my doom, but this sitting around—”

  “You don’t like our hospitality?” Major Bertram said, chuckling. “I’m joking, of course. The waiting can be the hardest part.”

  Bunny walked through the door in time to hear the conversation. He was a tall man and distinguished-looking, even for someone so young. His demeanor exuded humor and confidence, and he had light brown receding hair, and eyes that smiled even when serious. He and Jeremy had enjoyed re-acquainting during the hours of delay, with Bunny telling Jeremy, laughingly, “One of my mates says that piloting the Lysander is quite dodgy, like driving a London double-decker compared to the Spitfire or Beaufighter. I don’t know why he would be so insulting. I rather like it.”

  Now, he stood in the middle of the living room floor. “There won’t be any more waiting this round, not for another fifteen days. We’ve lost our window with the moon. You’ll be returned to London this afternoon and be back in two weeks.” He turned to Jeremy. “Major Crockatt sent a message for you to call him.”

  Bertram gestured toward the phone, and Jeremy placed the call. When he hung up, he had blanched, and he fought back emotion.

  Stony Stratford, England

  The crunch of gravel on her driveway caused Claire to look out her front window from her sofa where she played with Timmy. She had arrived home from work at Bletchley Park a few minutes earlier and expected no visitors, so she watched with curiosity as a small government sedan drove into sunlight from below twin rows of oaks and parked. The driver’s-side door opened, and Jeremy emerged.

  “Jeremy’s here,” she told Timmy excitedly.

  “Jermy?” the little boy squealed. “Jermy?”

  Claire pointed and Timmy ran to look out the window. Then she scooped him up and headed for the entrance. When she opened it, Jeremy was already halfway up the front path.

  “Jermy!” Timmy called, and squirmed to be let down.

  Claire laughed and lowered him to the ground. While the little boy ran to greet Jeremy with a huge smile and widespread arms, Claire advanced toward her brother. Then, the look on his face brought her to a halt as her chest suddenly tightened and her throat constricted.

  Jeremy’s face was long, his jaw taut, and his lips quivered. He stooped to pick up Timmy, but not before Claire caught sight of his eyes. They were horror-struck, and when Jeremy raised Timmy, he brought the boy to his chest and held him close. His body shook.

  “What?” Claire cried.

  Jeremy did not answer. He only shook his head and swayed back and forth with Timmy.

  Tears streamed down Claire’s face. “No,” she whispered, both hands engulfing her cheeks. “Who?”

  Jeremy tried to speak. Claire ran and clung to him. “Who was it?” she whispered. “Not Red. Please tell me it’s not Red.”

  Jeremy choked. “Red,” he gasped.

  Claire wept, her body shaking with grief. “Oh God, no,” she moaned. “Please tell me it’s not true.”

  Little Timmy, his eyes alternating between Jeremy and Claire, reached out and touched her face. “Don’t cry, Gigi,” he said in his tiny voice. “Everything will be all right. You’ll see.”

  Claire encircled the child and Jeremy with her arms, and the three stood for several minutes on the garden path doing nothing but holding each other. The nanny had come to the door apparently intending to leave for the day, but seeing the drama before her, she came and started to take Timmy. He resisted, clinging to Jeremy.

  “It’s all right,” he told her. “Thank you.”

  The nanny stood back observing for a moment, and then headed back inside. “I’ll make some tea. You go on into the living room and I’ll bring it to you.”

  Claire stepped back and wiped her eyes. Then Jeremy, still carrying the boy, walked up the path with her and entered the house.

  “How did it happen?” Claire asked when they were seated on the sofa.

  “The details are sketchy. Red’s squadron was on its first offensive run into France. Clouds were low. They thought they could get in, do some damage, and get out.” He told her as much as he knew. “They were caught deep inside France by seventy-five Messerschmitts. We lost two others, Hilard Fenlaw and Bill Nichols. Fenlaw was killed, but Nichols was wounded and captured. We’ve already received word on him.

  “Another pilot, Bill Geiger, saw Red break away and go after one of the enemies, but then two top German aces, Galland and Müncheberg, came after him. His plane was shot up pretty bad, but he still attacked one of them.”

  Claire took a deep breath. “What do we know about Red for sure?”

  Jeremy stood and rubbed his eyes. “He crash-landed. One of our chaps says he saw Red give a thumbs-up, but that’s unconfirmed.” He took a deep breath. “Red was known to the Germans because he was an original ‘eagle’ and an ace. Downing him would be a feather in anyone’s cap. Contacts in France reported to Major Crockatt’s office that German news announced that six of their pilots, including those two aces, claim to have shot him down.”

  “You don’t think there’s a chance he survived?”

  Jeremy shook his head. “I suppose there’s a slight chance, but we would have heard by now.”

  “How do you know that Fenlaw was killed?”

  “He blew up in midair. No parachute.”

  Claire shuddered. “How did Andy take the n
ews.”

  “I haven’t seen him. I imagine quite hard, though I doubt he’ll show it.”

  Fresh tears ran down Claire’s face. “Andy’s wedding is in one week. I’m not sure I can do it—go there.” Her breath came in short gasps. “That celebration or memorial or whatever you call what we did for Shorty at The Bull was so painful. I don’t know if I could do it again. And this isn’t a memorial service, it’s a wedding. Sadness is the last thing the couple needs, particularly in a war. Who knows how long we’ll keep Andy?”

  Her body shook. “How do I look happy when you and Andy are there without Red and Shorty? The four of you became such close friends. I grew to love them dearly.”

  Jeremy leaned over and held her. “I know,” he said, “especially Red.”

  “Yes, especially Red,” she sobbed. “I don’t know if it would have gone further. I never got the chance to find out.” She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. “I can’t keep doing this.”

  She felt Timmy nudging her knee, and when she glanced down at him, he looked at her with large, solemn eyes. “I love you, Gigi.”

  “Oh, I love you too,” she said, reaching down and lifting him into her arms.

  Jeremy regarded the two of them. “That’s the second time he’s called you Gigi.”

  “Well, he must call me something, and I’m not his mum or his aunt. What happens if bona fide family shows up and claims him? I don’t want to confuse him.”

  Jeremy tousled Timmy’s hair. “I know I’m being selfish, but I pray that doesn’t happen. I want to see him grow up.”

  “And we will, one way or another. You’ll see.”

  Jeremy chuckled involuntarily. “He’s sounding like you already. Did you hear him outside on the path? He used your ‘you’ll see’ phrase.” He looked into Claire’s face. “Let me know about the wedding. Under the circumstances—”